


Names

by AquaAurion



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 19:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6623182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaAurion/pseuds/AquaAurion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are on their way out of the classroom when the paper slips from the pile Gokudera is currently trying to shove into his bag. Yamamoto, one step behind him, does not think much of it and simply bends down, catching it between his fingers. Gokudera does not notice and Yamamoto cannot help the sudden curiosity that makes him flip it over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Names

**Author's Note:**

> Re-upload from my fanfiction account!  
> The original can be read [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11468345/1/Names)

They are on their way out of the classroom when the paper slips from the pile Gokudera is currently trying to shove into his bag. Yamamoto, one step behind him, does not think much of it and simply bends down, catching it between his fingers. Gokudera does not notice and Yamamoto cannot help the sudden curiosity that makes him flip it over.

His breath catches in his throat. Instead of the orderly script he has come to expect from Gokudera, the paper is cluttered with small symbols, scratched carelessly against the sheet as if the words had come flowing quicker than his pen could move. Yamamoto stares at the patterns and he knows that they should not mean anything to him, but they do. The familiarity has his head spinning and the desire to rip off his wristband right then, to compare the writings to the motif etched onto his skin is so strong that it sends tremors through his entire body. But he cannot move, he is too transfixed by the impossibility that is held between his hands.

“Dera, what… what is this?” he asks and his voice trembles, just like his fingers that are grasping too hard on sheet, crinkling it along the edges.  Yamamoto does not look up as he hears the faint rebuttal to the nickname, nor as Gokudera huffs and turns, because he cannot tear his gaze away, suddenly afraid that the symbols might morph into normal letters the moment his eyes leave the paper. It is not until it is snatched from his hands that he breaks free, that he realizes he is still leaning forward in a half slouch, as if his body forgot whether he was getting up or going down the moment he laid his eyes upon the markings.

Gokudera scoffs as he looks at the paper, as if he is annoyed by whatever the words spell out to him.  
“It’s G-script.” He mutters in an off-hand manner as he stuffs it into his pocket, crumpling it in the process. “I constructed it myself.” The clarification is added like an afterthought, as if Gokudera had intended to simply leave him clueless, but could not resist the moment to flaunt his skills. Yamamoto does not know what to do. Just the thought of possibly having this language, the one readable only to Gokudera’s eyes, imprinted on his skin is making him dizzy. Somehow he manages to follow the other out of the classroom. When they reach the school gates Gokudera mumbles something about having to get to work and he is halfway down the street before Yamamoto’s mind catches up. Parting words stuck in his throat, Yamamoto watches him disappear around the corner. He stands there for a moment, hand half raised, mind void of anything that is not Gokudera. Then his eyes lock onto the wristband and it is as if the ground dissolves beneath his feet, with the world spinning out of control around him. As Yamamoto starts walking home he can hardly feel his legs, so he breaks into a run, not trusting them to carry him for long. He is not even sure he can make it home at this rate.

He rips it off as soon as he is inside the front door, not caring to stop and just breathe for a moment. Yamamoto stares at the inked figures on the inside of his wrist. His fingers quiver as they skim over the print that should read his name. He looks at it over and over, fingers pressed against the skin to make sure it is real. His legs give in, right there in the hallway, before he has even gotten his shoes off, back sliding against the wall as he attempts to steady himself. But Yamamoto cannot tear his eyes from the miracle of Gokudera’s words inked onto his skin. It is an impossibility carved onto him since birth. Because no matter how much he wishes it was, this cannot be true, because this is Gokudera and Gokudera does not do _soulmates_.

That night he carefully copies the symbols onto a piece of paper, each stroke slowly being imprinted onto the whitened surface. It is not the first time he tries to duplicate the marking on his skin, in fact he has created endless copies throughout his childhood, trying to figure out why someone would write his name in such a peculiar fashion. But he has never done it with such focus, as if the slightest deviation from the original would prove fatal the moment Gokudera lays his eyes upon it.

Yamamoto waits until classes are over, having discreetly asked Tsuna to head home without them, before approaching Gokudera. The other youth grumbles about him being slow, but still lingers as Yamamoto slowly packs his things. He takes a deep breath and pulls out the note from his pocket, holding it out for Gokudera to take.  
“What does this say?” Yamamoto asks, heart beating furiously as he studies Gokudera’s reaction.  
“It says ‘idiot’.” Gokudera provides, voice bored and eyes already trailing towards the door before realization seems to strike him. Yamamoto watches as Gokudera goes rigid, a furious blush spreading across his features and lips twisting into a snarl. “Why the fuck do you know that? Yesterday you didn’t even know what you were looking at. Bastard, did you go through my stuff?!” Yamamoto cannot bring himself to answer, he is too lost in the meaning of his previous statement and he is not sure if the loud ringing in his ears is the rush of his blood or if his heart is still beating at all. He feels the smile before it has even properly settled on his face, feels the bubbling sensation spreading through his body like wildfire and has to reach up to touch his chest to be certain it has not burst open.

Gokudera seems taken aback by the joy radiating from him and takes a hesitant step backwards, as if he is already subconsciously aware of what is happening. With fingers shaking from barely contained excitement Yamamoto reaches towards his wristband, silently tugging it down.  
“ _No_.” the single syllable leaves Gokudera’s lips as a hushed whisper, panic radiating from his features as he edges backwards. Although he is moving away, Yamamoto can feel the other’s gaze on him intensifying, disbelieving eyes watching each movement of his hand with such focus Yamamoto has yet to experience directed towards himself. There is a sharp inhale as the tattoo comes into view and then Gokudera is moving forward, hands hovering above Yamamoto’s wrist and his eyes are wide, fixed on the inked figures. Yamamoto forgets to breathe when Gokudera’s lips part in a shaky exhale, which escalates into something akin to sobbing. His mind tells him to do _something_ , but he stands there, unmoving, as he watches Gokudera gasp for air and frantically run his fingers through his hair. And he watches as the alarm fades and as the hint of a smile softens the edges of Gokudera’s mouth, watches his wide eyes light up in silent marvel.

Gokudera’s fingers hesitantly slide against his wrist, redrawing each marking. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but does not seem to be able to form any words. Yamamoto waits with his heart in his throat, not daring to speak and possibly break whatever spell Gokudera is caught in.  
“I wrote this.” There is wonder in his voice as Gokudera runs his thumb over the tattoo, peering down on it like he is expecting it to disappear. “I wrote this.” He repeats and glances up at Yamamoto, who does not know how to respond and offers a light nod instead.

Then Gokudera lets go of his hand and takes a step back. The expression on his face is something Yamamoto has never seen before, unreadable despite the way his glances have endlessly been drawn to the other youth. His gaze follows the pale fingers as Gokudera pulls his shirt up and starts fumbling with his belt, hands too eager to be able to get a proper hold of the buckle. Yamamoto gapes at him in shock, unsure how to react to the other teen suddenly _stripping_ in the classroom. He has a brief vision of his own death as the thought of Hibari passing by and seeing them defiling his precious school crosses his mind, before a sliver of black against pale skin catches his attention. It is resting on the inside of Gokudera’s  hip bone, just barely visible above the line of his pants and Yamamoto feels his mouth go dry as he realizes what Gokudera is doing.

There is a clinking of metal as Gokudera manages to free himself of his belt and then he is pushing down on the fabric, revealing inches of brush strokes that curve along the softness of his stomach.  
“Is that..?” Yamamoto hears the breathlessness in his own voice as he leans forward, slipping into a half crouch in order to get closer, to make sure it is real. He does not know how many times he has dreamt of seeing his own handwriting on Gokudera’s skin, but nothing could have prepared him for _this_. It is by no means pretty, the temple character is drawn with his own sloppy writing, but Yamamoto swears it is the most beautiful thing he has seen, his own nickname made eternal upon the other’s body. He has to reach out, feel it against the tips of his fingers to make sure he is still grounded. Because it feels like he is flying, soaring among the clouds and he might just loose his footing if no one holds him down.

Gokudera keeps him firmly rooted, with fingers tentatively curling around his wrists and eyes fixed upon his, quietly searching for something.  
“It says _Dera_.” He chokes out and then he is laughing. He laughs with tears of relief streaming down his cheeks and somehow Gokudera is laughing as well, hands clasping the back of Yamamoto’s shirt and forehead pressing against his collarbone. As he wraps his arms around Gokudera and buries his face in his silver strands, Yamamoto is not sure whether he is laughing or crying or both. It is not like it matters anyway, because Gokudera is in his arms and the world could stop spinning without him noticing.


End file.
